


Echoes

by fresne



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 19:33:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8858020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: Oliva, long since silent, said nothing to him in the groundcar as he left that... that... that his house would come to this! There were no echoes of Olivia's voice.His daughter, his little girl, long since silent, did not echo laughter in the stable as Miles held Fat Ninny. His eldest boy, his first heir, did not lurk a shadow as Miles watched the wine cart roll in. As Piotr played political games there was no echo to be heard.There was no echo of Aral, eager to go to the Academy, to make official what was already real, in Miles' plans.There were no echoes at all.It was that Piotr could not help hearing them.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tequila_Mockingbird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tequila_Mockingbird/gifts).



> Given Barrayaran naming conventions, I went with Ivan as Padma's father's name. Piotr's grandfather must, one assumes, also have been a Piotr. This left older teen brother and younger sister names up in the air. I went with Alexander/Alexi for the older brother and Sonia (for the younger sister/presumably some older female relative) for the little sister.

Piotr stared across the wide expanse of the groundcar.

No one looked back at him.

He was alone.

The groundcar wove through traffic.

Rubble.

Barriers still being cleared away from Vordarian's Pretendership.

A blank eyed head staring at him from a table top. As sightless as the Cetagandan bastards his boys had left as silent warnings behind enemy lines.

The same warning.

Like the echo of a deafening sonic grenade.

Inside the heavily armored groundcar, it was silent.

His conversation with Aral did not echo in that space. He firmly held to the shield of his anger and no lance could break that barrier.

Aral and that Betan frill had lied to him about the infant's progress. More fool he for believing that there was anything but a stone for the kitten in that soup. That the future could be saved.

The groundcar wove around rubble.

Silence.

This still could be saved if Aral would do his duty as a Vorkosigan, but Piotr had always shielded him. Shielded him even from doing his duty for his name's honor with that Vorrutyer woman. Only to have him turn around and.

Silence.

The empty seat facing him said nothing.

This was not Piotr's fault.

Their family tree was too small to afford a mutie branch. Nine generations ending in a blight.

How would an infant like that even vote at council? Even show its face.

He'd be the Count from all those old legends, or so everyone would think. Proles. Vor. His mountain boy.

The infant hadn't even had the grace to die when pulled from his dam's belly.

His father's bones, so much ash along with the rest of Vorkosigan Vashnoi, brought to this. He'd once burned strands of his childer locks at Grandpere's grave guided by his da's hand. While his da told him stories about his namesake. 

That name would pass away now.

That Betan frill had no way of knowing if her father would approve of her naming gift.

The empty seat facing him said nothing.

The groundcar wove through rubble.

Betans were corrupt Galactics, who had invented the tendencies that Aral had.

No virtue in standing in that line of sight.

The groundcar rumbled down the streets.

Piotr stared out the tinted windows.

The far side of the car, the empty seat, said nothing.

Aral's words looped back.

Piotr had not failed Olivia! He had not failed his children! He had not failed Alexi! Not his little Sonia! As if such an attack could pierce his righteous rage. If that had struck true, it would have emulsified him as surely as a well-placed thermal on a Cetagandan drop ship.

It did not! It could not! He couldn't have been there!

He'd had to deal with that idiot Vorfolse. Belike he'd not have gone to the party at all. Cramming into an apartment for a infant.

If that idiot Ivan had moved into Prince Xav's fortress of a home when his wife wrangled the invitation then it would have been fine. The failure was Ivan's not Piotr's.

Ivan's name now lived on in an infant. A healthy infant.

Probably breed true as an idiot.

The groundcar ground on.

All Piotr had done was not attend Padma's first birthday party. He focused the plasma of his rage on all he'd done after.

So much nothing if his family name came to this.

The far side of the car, the empty seat, said nothing.

The groundcar rumbled down the road.

"No one says nothing. Silence has its own words." Olivia had once told him that.

The very last thing Olivia had lobbed at him before leaving for Padma's birthday had been.

He did not think about it.

Locked it away.

Some grenades emulsified. The rest left the survivors to stagger on.

To be picked off by snipers in the hills.

Distractions. There would be no mutie in Vorkosigan House. Broken and unfit to serve.

The groundcar smoothly pulled up to Vorkosigan House.

Piotr didn't wait for Esterhazy to open the door.

A retreat.

A cavalry charge downhill.

He flung himself out and inside. Stood on the black and white stone tiles with nowhere in particular to go. Behind him, Esterhazy closed the wide doors.

Vorkosigan House was not precisely quiet. Armsmen and servants moved about the building. Distant echoes.

A servant, Jefer's daughter from up on Tanak Ridge, stood with a mop and bucket by Olivia's entry table.

Wise woman, she shipped her mop and retreated. Jefer had always been good at knowing when to retreat.

Piotr retreated to his rooms. Changed clothes. The travesty of respect for what Aral and that woman had tried to trick him into. He clung to the vapour trails of that anger. He charged down the spiralling stairs.

There'd never be a lift installed in Vorkosigan House while Piotr was Count! Lifts were for old women and mutants.

Piotr marched into the walled yard behind Vokosigan house. Fumed. Boiled. Radioactively gleamed. Basked in the heat of his anger's shield.

To have it pierced when he looked up at the boarded window on the third floor. There had been no time to fix the glass. To fix the fortress of his home. To fix all their failures.

Piotr turned away.

Olivia, as she had these many years, kept her own council.

+++

When Piotr told Miles that he should wear clothes that hadn't been washed for the foaling, he hadn't expected to be taken so.

Miles said, "I slept in them for three days under an extra heavy blanket. Was that enough? I could… will the foal like me better if I pee on my clothes? I could… that might be damp. Maybe I could just…"

Bothari said, "Lord Miles!"

"Plenty of piss in a stable," said Piotr, "We don't need to add yours." He turned away.

Heard small steps moving quickly to keep up.

If he didn't turn his head, it could have been his little Sonia following him. Eager to look at the pretty horses. Wanting to ride just like her Mama and Papa. Horse mad. Had her papa wrapped around her little finger.

Piotr looked back to see Miles smiling brightly. Bothari stone faced.

Illusion shredded by needle fire.

Gorge Guts had foaled Noname well enough. Good conformation of the legs. Bright eyes. "Good breeding is important. Tells you what traits you'll get from a foal or filly."

Miles bobbed on his toes. "Noname's dam is Gorge Guts, who has won thirty-three ribbons in dressage competitions. Noname's sire is Sirococo, who is a quarter horse owned by."

"I know his lineage, boy." Piotr put an end to the breathless babble. Didn't want to resist adding, "Breeding doesn't always cast true."

Too small of hands plucked at wrinkled and sweat stained clothes. "Are you sure I shouldn't do more to make him like me?"

"You'll do." Piotr exhaled. Wouldn't do to spook the horses. Went into the stables followed by his small train.

Half a day old Noname stood on spindly legs by his dam. He flicked his ears as they approached the sweet hay stuffed stall.

Gorge Guts looked for the sugar in his palm. Piotr told Miles, "Pick Noname up like I showed you. Show him that you're bigger than he is."

Bothari looked nervous.

Piotr smiled at him as the several thousand pounds of protective mother ate sugar from his palm and ignored the small child carefully lifting up her child.

Miles laughed. "He licked me. He likes me."

"He likes your salt," said Piotr.

There were no echoes in this stable. None at all. For all that Sonia had laughed and said the same thing in this very stable. Mayhap Piotr'd said the same to his own da in his day.

Miles laughed. Held the foal in his arms exactly as Piotr had shown him.

They spent the rest of the afternoon in the stables. Watching Noname greedily suckle. Placidly flick his tail at a persistent fly, which spoke well for his temperament, if not his judgement. Better to flick his tail at Miles.

Training a horse was no small matter. "They're herd animals, boy."

Miles looked at where Noname was suckling. "Should I pick him up again? I could hold him so he can keep eating. It wouldn't be hard. Maybe if I moved that hay bale a little closer, I could."

"No." Piotr scowled away a smile. "You don't need to pick him up again. Time enough for that tomorrow. Time to let mother and son rest a bit."

This announcement was followed by an eruption of babbling from Miles, who ran circles around them as they walked back to the main house. An uninterrupted flow at the dinner table, which eclipsed all other conversation.

Piotr slowly cut into his steak and basked in the slightly glazed look on Cordelia's face. He leaned in her direction. "It'll be more of this for at least a fortnight."

Only to have his grenade thrown back with Cordelia's amused look. "I'm sure he'll enjoy himself in the stables." Backed by Aral's unfurrowing smile. Aral ought to be in the capital. What with the trade deal with Escobar come up and that prole in charge of the Ministry of Agriculture rumbling about cabbage shortages.

Piotr consoled himself that Miles would no doubt lose interest. Never mind that he'd taken to the dressage training like a pig to shit.

Like a horse mad child eager for crumbs of his time. Playing with his peas like Sonia always had. Marching them about to lay siege to the carrots. Glancing at Piotr to see if he noticed that she was replaying the battle of Terrat Vale. Her favorite bedtime story.

Piotr focused on his steak. Good meat shouldn't go to waste.

The next morning, Piotr came out of his room before dawn to find Miles waiting outside his door with a thermos of a coffee and a bleary eyed Bothari scowling behind him.

Miles said, "Is it time to train with Noname yet? I slept in my clothes again."

Piotr coughed. "Come on then." He took the coffee and swallowed down sleep.

By the time Noname earned the name Fat Ninny, Piotr had to admit that the boy had something about him.

Mutie. Too weak. Too breakable.

Out of the corner of his eyes saw the stable hands flicking fingers to ward off the evil eye.

Bright eyes. His mother's eyes.

Woman couldn't ride for shit.

Miles' interest would drift soon enough.

Wouldn't do to get him a new saddle.

Piotr went up to the attic at Vorkosigan House to find the saddle he'd had made for Sonia. It matched her mother's. A child's saddle. Stitched in flowers to match her Mother's. Alexi and Aral had never been interested enough to warrant more than a saddle from the track room.

He sent it to Tomas' son to give the leather some love. Replace the velvet with something more fitting for a boy.

Sonia, long silent, didn't object.

+++

Miles crept into the yellow parlor between the wine and the maple mead.

He hadn't been there when Vorprintempes poured himself some of the Derria 02 Pinot. Expensive. All reputation and no finish. Just like Vorprintempes holding up sugary legs to show his ally Dumarde.

Miles was lurking quietly by the curtains by the time Vorprintempes threatened to sanction Dendarri hardwoods if Piotr didn't see reason about the goat curds.

Piotr hadn't heard Miles come in. No small feat given Miles had broken his left leg.

Again.

Piotr's lips curled to think of the panic that traitor Bothari must be in just then. Searching for his precious charge wandered into the Count's lair.

Not wandered. Miles was hiding where Alexi used to hide when the wine cart was rolled in. He'd once told Alexi that it was a good tactical spot, given the angles of view in the room, but to beware window lurkers.

Miles was nothing like Alexi. Military mad rather than increasingly politically insane. Piotr couldn't hear Alexi muttering that, "The failure of politics is the start of war," with that sullen teenage twist he'd begun to use. Alexi would have gotten over his Galactic sympathies fed to him by his mother and that grandmother of his. He would have.

The only reason Piotr didn't stop the meeting to have Miles escorted out was he had Vorprintempes one step from arguing with Dumarde over grazing rights.

That was the only reason, and no other.

The shadow of his oldest son, or the curtain, didn't so much as ruffle as Miles evaded Dumarde's spilled mead on the window.

+++

Piotr poured over the maps as carefully as he ever had for any campaign.

A strange echo. Consulting with Miles on the best approaches for the Imperial Academy physical exam.

Miles sat where Aral had once sat.

Piotr in his old place.

Same words.

No.

Aral had already been bloodied by countless battles and the blood of an Emperor by the time Ezar had made him jump through ridiculous hoops to be what he already was.

Vor.

Piotr had argued himself blue to Ezar to no effect.

If Ezar had been as strict with his own boy, Barrayar would be richer by Escobar's wormhole routes.

"You're Vor. You shouldn't have to fight for admittance to the academy. It's your right." Startled not to find Aral's face looking back.

"I'll earn the right," said Miles. A lift of his chin. A familiar jerk of his head over the collar of his coat.

Same words.

Different audience.

Different.

Different couches.

Piotr tried to remember when that had happened. Didn't want to ask. He almost asked Olivia, but no. For all that he felt the weight of her hand on his shoulder.

He couldn't ask Miles. The boy could recite all forty thousand lines of "Vorthalia the Bold and the Thicket of Thorns" and still spout off "The Ballad of the Lady of the Lake," but he had no interest in fripperies like furniture.

A good boy. Clever. Must get that from Olivia. Piotr had always gotten through by guts and cunning.

Miles. Not Aral.

Boy should have his patronymic.

He could feel his da's hand wrapped around his own as if it were yesterday. Burning an offering for Grandpere, Count Vorkosigan.

He'd burned an offering much later for Grandpere Le Sanguinaire after the Cetagandans vaporized him at the battle of… he couldn't remember.

"What was the name of the siege where General Count Vorrutyer was vaporized?"

"Nuovo Novgorod. But…oh, yes. I see." He tapped the bend in the river. "I'll be careful about getting boxed in." Another chin lift. "I'll prove myself worthy."

Piotr felt Sonia tugging on his sleeve to go to the stable. Alexi grumbling about those Galactic fantasies of his. Olivia's hand on his shoulder. Almost time to go.

Just waiting for this.

Miles would prove himself worthy and Piotr could offer him Grandfather's name.

Just a little longer.

He was very tired, but he poured over the maps.

Olivia, as she had for so long, kept her own council on the matter.

The rest was silence.

**Author's Note:**

> The description of the specific location of the party where house Vorkosigan lost 3 family members, I drew on an interview with the author, which I foolishly didn't save the link to. But it was basically, it all went down at Padma's birthday in an apartment with bored teen older bro and young sis in attendance.
> 
> If you like my writing, check out my profile for links to other works.


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